


all this time (i have been yours)

by blujamas



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, F/M, Unrequited Love, no happy ending. just angst, to... lovers?, vampire!Matthew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25263811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blujamas/pseuds/blujamas
Summary: The years have not been easy for Matthew. He wonders if it would be different, if he hadn't been Turned a century ago. But that is not the story he tells. Instead, he tells a story about hope.
Relationships: Matthew Fairchild/Lucie Herondale, background James Herondale/Cordelia Carstairs, implied Lucie Herondale/Jesse Blackthorn
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	all this time (i have been yours)

_Was there a lifetime waiting for us,_

_in a world where I was yours?_

_Was it the wrong time?_

_What if we tried giving in a little more?_

_I’d spend a lifetime waiting in vain_

_just to go back to the way we were before._

**\- LIFETIME,** _Ben &Ben_

* * *

Matthew Fairchild marks the years in deaths and births and rebirths.

One year after he is Turned, his _parabatai_ gets married to a girl with flaming-red hair in a countryside far from the smoke and grime of the city. They do so in the cover of night, bathed in witchlight and the silver flames of a warlock’s enchantments. James Herondale says he has always preferred the dark anyway, as a jest, but Matthew knows if circumstances had been different – if Matthew’s skin could still bear the warmth of the sun, if Matthew could still properly call himself a Shadowhunter, if people he has known all his life didn’t look at him now with scornful eyes, branding him as _other_ – James would be married in the light of London. But James refused to have a wedding in which Matthew was not his _suggenes,_ and the wistful look on Will Herondale’s eyes was too much for Matthew to resist. So he stands beside his best friend, his darling James, as he says his vows and gets new runes, and pretends he is happy to be there.

Half a year later, Lucie Herondale gets married to a boy with green eyes. Matthew is invited. He does not attend.

They send him letters. His Merry Thieves – but his no longer – try to find him. He tells only Anna where goes, because Anna is the only one he trusts to keep his secrets. With a heart that does not beat but still, strangely, aches, Matthew Fairchild drowns what is left of his Shadowhunter life – his stele, his Gear, his books – in the Thames. Then he packs up what is left and leaves for New York. That glittering city his Aunt Tessa had so often described to him when he was but a child.

He makes a home there, just barely. It is hard to find sympathetic Downworlders as a Shadowhunter-turned-vampire. But he manages. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s charming people into making them think he belongs. He sleeps the daylight away and emerges into the night, ready to drown himself in drinks spiked with blood.

Two years later: he receives a letter from Anna. Lucie has given birth to a healthy baby boy. She has named him Matthew. Matthew Blackthorn.

Matthew goes to Paris, to Bombay, to Cairo, to Beijing. He is as restless as he was when he was a mortal. He thinks if he keeps running, he will eventually outrun his past.

One year later, two years, three: he gets news of nieces and nephews – blood-related or otherwise – that he will never let himself meet.

He is almost staked by a wild-eyed Shadowhunter in Tennessee. He invokes Raziel’s name to be granted some mercy and then, afterwards, wonders what would have happened if he had not once been one of them.

A decade later, two decades, three: Anna writes to him of his father’s death. She begs him to come home for the first time, if only to comfort his mother. She does not beg again.

He cries himself to sleep, alone in an apartment across the sea.

Three decades more, and Anna stops writing. He is glad she does, before she could bring him news of James’ passing. Or Lucie’s.

And then Matthew is well and truly alone.

* * *

It is a brand-new millennia. The moon rises on the Hotel Dumort. Vampires – young and old – gather at the feet of a golden-haired boy, expectant and marveling. He has told them stories of his days fighting as _the enemy_ – those sure-footed angels with their blazing knives. He has told them of his adventures to faraway lands. The world has changed, but he has not: Matthew Fairchild is a storyteller, and most days the only thing keeping him alive are the stories.

But he is tired tonight. He is sad, and bitter and so, so tired.

So, when they ask him for a story, there is only one he is able to tell.

“This is a story of hope,” he begins.

* * *

**1899.**

“Tessa!” Will Herondale burst into the London Institute like a firework, coming alive after their brief detour to the Silent City, where a Silent Brother Matthew had once seen with his mother expressed his quiet indignation at Will’s unexpected visit but did not protest beyond that. “Tess, where are you? You would never believe what just happened—”

Will disappeared down a hallway, still calling for his wife, leaving Matthew and James alone in the foyer. For a moment, there was only silence as the weight of their choice finally settled on them. And then James started laughing. A beat later, Matthew followed suit, and soon the two boys were doubled up over themselves, clutching at each other’s shoulders just to make sure it was all real.

“We blew up the Academy!” Matthew laughed, shaking James so hard the other boy almost hit his head against the wall. “Oh, by the Angel, my one regret, James, is not seeing the look on Alastair Carstairs’ face!”

But James was in disbelief about another matter entirely. He gingerly took Matthew’s face between his hands, his golden eyes shining, and said, “I can’t believe I’m going to have a _parabatai._ ”

Matthew’s breath left his lungs. “Quite right,” he said softly. “And what a marvelously handsome _parabatai_ you’ve got there.”

James laughed again and stepped away from Matthew. “Come,” he said, heading towards a grand staircase. “By now, Father has found my mother and we will not see more of him until later tonight.” He rolled his eyes in the manner of children both enthralled by and indignant of their parents’ love. “I’ve got a lot to show you.”

Matthew followed James up the stairs and then down a hallway. James stopped in front of a pair of doors carved with angelic runes, pressing his ear against it for a moment before beaming and saying, “Sounds like she’s in,” and throwing the doors open.

The Herondales had a more impressive library than Matthew’s family did, but he only had a brief moment to admire the heavy tomes sitting on shelves and on the floor and on stray surfaces before his gaze is caught on a girl sitting by the window. Her fingers were moving furiously against a typewriter, and its faint _clac-clac-clac_ noise only ceased when the girl leaned back, inspected her pages, and nodded at them with approval before throwing herself back at it.

 _Clac-clac-clac._ A _ding_ as the typewriter reached the end of the line. Then again, _clac-clac-clac._

James cleared his throat to announce their arrival.

“Mama?” the girl said, not turning around. “Mama, is that you?”

“Not Mama,” whispered James, and Matthew heard in those two words how truly lonely James had been at the Academy.

The girl paused. Then she turned her head, just slightly. Matthew felt his chest lurch. In the dying daylight streaming from the windows, the girl looked like she was drawn in fire and blood. Matthew’s eyes adjusted to the glare, but she was still as breathtakingly pretty – soft-blue eyes on a heart-shaped face, brown hair falling in gentle waves.

“James,” the girl said softly. Then she was out of her seat, running full force at them and then jumping into her brother’s waiting arms. James spun her around and around, both of them laughing and shrieking and crying. Matthew watched them whirl about the room until James finally put her down, grinning with wild abandon. “Missed me much, did you?”

The girl punched him on the shoulder before wiping discreetly at her wet cheeks. “Yeah, not a lot of fun to do here without your stupid face to annoy.”

Matthew laughed, and at last the girl noticed him there. She wiped her hands on her ink-stained skirts and then strode towards him.

“And who are you?” Lucie asked, both accusatory and curious.

Matthew knew there was no place in the world where he could hide from her fierce glare. For once, he didn’t know what to say.

“Matthew Fairchild,” said James from behind her. “Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Henry’s son, remember? And Matthew, you remember my sister Lucie.”

 _Lucie._ Yes, that was her name. How could he have ever forgotten? He would not let himself forget now, not ever.

 _“Matthew,”_ Lucie said, rolling his name on her tongue. Then, like with whatever she was writing before, she nodded approvingly. Matthew wanted to earn that approval for the rest of his life.

“I’m to be your brother’s handsome _parabatai,_ ” he said proudly. He knew it would make James laugh, but it surprised him to find that it made Lucie smile, too.

“James’ _parabatai,_ ” she mused. “We will be seeing a lot of each other, then, I suppose?”

Matthew hoped.

* * *

**1900.**

They found themselves alone in the training room. Thomas and Christopher had left for the day, and James had been called away by Aunt Tessa to discuss some matter or another. To be perfectly truthful, Matthew had been paying attention to less and less as his sparring session with Lucie wore on, for two reasons – one less noble than the other.

Lucie was a year younger and a head shorter, but was a fearsome fighter. If their swords hadn’t been blunted, she would have shorn his head off twice by now. Matthew tried his best to put up a decent fight, parrying her blows and dancing around her thrusts, but even he has limits.

There was something about Lucie when she fought. A quiet intensity. A hidden brilliance. She was alike her brother, in that regard. If darkness could be bright, it would take the forms of the Herondale siblings. But here was the difference between James and Lucie: where James was an open book to Matthew, Lucie was frighteningly shut. Perhaps it was because one was his _parabatai_ and the other wasn’t. Or perhaps it was because she was Lucie and he was Matthew and she would always be his weakness.

“ _En garde,_ Math!” She grinned, her hair escaping from its careful braid, and Matthew stood there, momentarily transfixed, thinking, _Oh, Raziel—_

Then her sword hit him square across the cheek, sending him sprawling across the training room floor. For a moment, Matthew only stared up at the crossbeams above him, uncomprehending, his heart hammering inside his chest as if it were trying to break his ribcage from the inside out. For a moment, he could only recall the blaze of her pale-blue eyes, like a brewing winter storm, and the small dimple in her cheek as she grinned at him.

And then he heard her distant shriek and panic overtook whatever that strange, fluttering feeling had been.

“Lucie?” he called out desperately. “Lucie, are you alright?”

And there was her face, appearing above him, her eyes wide and her lip quivering. “Worry about yourself!” she said, half furious, half worried. “Matthew, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you duck?”

Why hadn’t he? She’d smiled at him half a thousand times since they’d met. He’d made her laugh so hard milk came out of her nose. He’d once tickled her so thoroughly she cried, and then she’d taken her vengeance by annihilating him in a pillow fight. They’d fallen asleep reading by the fireplace and then woke to find Uncle Will had transferred them to the couch, with Lucie leaning against the armrest and Matthew’s head on her lap. These were normal things, things he should be used to.

And yet. And yet he hadn’t ducked.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, blinking stars out of his vision. “Was a bit… distracted.”

That was one word for it.

“Do you need an _iratze_?”

“No,” he said quietly. “No, I—that’s not what I need.”

He almost jumped out of his skin when she slid her hand against his cheek. She held it there, a warm, steady presence, and Matthew turned his head to press his lips against her palm.

 _Oh,_ he thought, _oh, Matthew, you bloody idiot._

But she didn’t stiffen. She didn’t pull away. She kept her hand right where it was, Matthew’s breaths ghosting over her skin. He didn’t dare look up at her. He was afraid of whatever he would find on her face.

“Math…” she said, gently. “I think you’re concussed.”

“Alright,” he said, pulling away and closing his eyes, so he didn’t have to see her. “Let’s call it that.”

He heard her swallow. Heard her start to say something. And then there was James’ footsteps, and then James voice, breaking with worry.

“Is he alright?” James demanded.

“Yes.” There was something odd about Lucie’s voice. Something different. “Matthew just has a concussion. That’s all.”

Matthew hoped that really _was_ all of it, because if it wasn’t—

If it wasn’t, then he was in deep, _deep_ trouble.

* * *

**1901.**

“ _He takes her by the hand and says, “I love you, Princess Victoria, as I love chocolate cake.””_ Matthew paused, looking over the top of the manuscript at its writer, who stood beside the couch Matthew was currently sprawled on. “Chocolate cake? Really, Luce?”

Lucie, who had been watching Matthew for the past fifteen minutes and rapidly chewing her nails down to their beds, threw her hands up in exasperation before sinking helplessly onto the couch. “I told you!” she said, her cheeks reddening. “I told you it was awful! Absolutely awful! I had writer’s block, Math, and I just wanted to finish that one chapter but I’m so terrible with romance all of a sudden and _it’s awful!_ ”

She tried to snatch the manuscript from his hands but he held them out of her reach, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. That only made her flush more.

“This isn’t funny, Matthew,” she said glumly, retreating. “This is my _livelihood_. How could I possibly hope to be a world-renowned author if I can’t even write a proper confession scene?”

“And this is why you asked me here?” Matthew said, carefully adjusting himself on the couch to give Lucie more space to sit. “You think I have anything worthwhile to contribute to your romantic cause?”

“Yes,” she replied unabashedly.

He thought it over for a moment. And then he said, “No.”

She blinked. “No?”

Outside the library windows, the sun was just setting. Matthew could hear the crows cawing in the distance. Nighttime usually meant hitting the streets and getting into all sorts of trouble, with either Anna or the Merry Thieves, but instead, here Matthew was, choosing to spend his evening lying on a couch with Lucie Herondale and worrying at her latest piece of fiction. He wasn’t complaining, per se, but these days it was hard to look at Lucie without feeling a sharp pain in his gut, like he’d been stabbed.

If he was going to suffer through this pain, he might as well get something out of it.

“What’s in it for me?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at her. “What do I get if I help you?”

“What do you want?”

“Hm…” Matthew pretended to think, holding up Lucie’s manuscript to his face. It smelled of ink and pressed lavenders. Like Lucie. “What about your signed copy of _The Canterville Ghost?”_

Lucie considered him with a long look. “Don’t you have three of those already? You weaseled one out of this very library, if memory serves.”

“Your memory is failing you, Miss Herondale. I would _never_ thieve from the family that has sheltered me, fed me, loved me—”

“You did! And Mother caught you but then, since Mother adores you so, she simply let you have it. See? I remember _everything_ , Matthew Fairchild!” She smiled cheekily and poked him in the ribs. “But, fine, it that is what it takes to buy your help, you shall have it. Now tell me how to improve upon this atrocious script.”

Matthew grinned. Then he considered Lucie’s work again, his eyes trailing over her looping script. He resisted the urge to reach out and trace the letters with his fingers. No matter how clueless Lucie was to romantic ideas, he didn’t think she’d miss something _that_ obvious. So he read on in silence. And then he pointed to a passage and said, “We could start here.”

She moved to see where he was indicating. She braced her arm against his chest and leaned over to read along with him. He could smell the sweet perfume of her hair, feel her full weight against him. He tried to rearrange his breathing into a more acceptable pace.

“Alright,” she said. “What do you propose?”

“ _He glances over at her and then away,_ ” Matthew began softly. “ _He is afraid of getting caught looking, because he knows what he feels would be written starkly on his face. He cannot allow her to learn his heart’s desire before he has a chance to tell her himself.”_

Lucie relaxed into the story until her cheek was resting against Matthew’s collarbone. Until she was lying flush against him. Until his heart began to pound so loudly he feared she would hear it.

“Continue,” she said gently, touching Matthew’s wrist. He had not even realized he’d stopped.

He cleared his throat and continued as she’d asked. “The confession scene, now. _Prince Alfred draws her close to him._ ” Matthew’s free arm instinctively went around Lucie’s waist. _“He takes her by the hand and says, “I love you, Princess Victoria. I always have.””_

She nods along. Approval. That was what Matthew wanted, wasn’t it? So why did it feel lacking this time around?

 _Continue._ “ _”I love you as the sea loves the moon, forever dancing to your gravity, forever ebbing and flowing according to your will.””_

Lucie seemed to understand what he was getting at, because she jumped in to fill his silence: “ _”I love you as the candle loves the flame, happy to burn away just to be close to your warmth.”_ ”

“There you go, Lucie,” he whispered into her hair. Ink. Lavender. _Continue._ “ _”I will love you always, until the grave claims me, and maybe even after that. I will love you even if it’s impossible. I will love you even if you find some other man to love, some other man to be happy with. I will love you then as I love you now – faultlessly, incomparably, desperately.””_

“ _She slips her fingers through his,”_ Lucie said, offering her palm to him. The hand that had been on her hip rose on its own volition, and before Matthew could think twice, he was slipping his fingers through hers, lacing their hands together, tightly, as if they both meant it. _“She says, “I feel the same. Exactly the same. Is it possible for two hearts to beat to the same exact tune?””_

 _“Yes,”_ Matthew breathed, and he wasn’t sure who was speaking now, Prince Alfred or just Matthew Fairchild. “Yes, I think—”

“Math!”

It was James’ voice, muffled against the library doors, but too close for comfort. Lucie and Matthew sprung apart as if they’d burned each other. Lucie’s pages went fluttering to the ground, and they both bent to gather them.

“I’m sorry.” Lucie’s ears were red. “I got it, Math, I got it—”

“No,” Matthew said at the same time, gathering pages into his hands. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have—”

They both reached for the last page at the same time, their fingers brushing briefly, and Matthew drew back before he could feel that same burning fire as before. His heart refused to still. _Be quiet, you wretched thing,_ he told it. _She might hear you._

The library doors opened and James strode in, looking from Matthew to Lucie. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Obviously not, my dear James,” Matthew said as breezily as he could. He handed the pages back to Lucie without looking at her. “Just helping Lucie out with her writing.”

James considered Matthew, and then Lucie. “Alright, then. Well, Math, I just swung by to see if you wanted to head off somewhere tonight.” He paused. “You can come, too, Luce, if you want.”

“No,” Lucie said. “I… I have some revisions to do. Couple of new ideas for this story I’m writing.”

“Great,” said Matthew.

“Right,” said Lucie.

Then they looked at each other. And they smiled.

 _Everything’s alright,_ Matthew thought, hoping it was true. _Everything’s okay._ His heart told a different story, but that was a problem for another day.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Lucie said. There was a different underlying question there, one Matthew thought he wasn’t quite ready to answer yet.

“Not tomorrow,” Matthew said brightly, kissing the top of her head and trying his hardest not to linger there. Ink. Lavender. Lucie. James was waiting for him by the door, but Matthew was in no particular hurry. “Tomorrow, I’m going to the Shadow Market.”

* * *

**1902.**

The door opened, spilling light into the dark room. Matthew blinked furiously at the sudden intrusion, until the dancing spots in his vision cleared and he finally saw the figure standing over him. His first thought was that maybe it was Angel Raziel come to take him at last, free him from his torment. His second, more lucid thought was that it was the one person he did not want to see him like this.

“Mama?” he said, his voice sounding so lost. So scared. “Mama, is that you?”

“It’s me, Math.” The voice that answered sounded just as small as Matthew felt. That voice. He would always know that voice.

The door closed and the darkness came again. Matthew reached blindly in the dark, his fingers catching the edge of a skirt. He clutched at the fabric like it was his only lifeline and croaked, “Please don’t leave me alone here.”

“I would never do that, Matthew,” Lucie said. “Not to you.”

She moved in the dark until she was sitting beside him. Gently, more gently than he deserved, she moved his head to rest on her lap. He tried to pull away, to explain he stunk of vomit and alcohol, but she only held on fast to him, stroking his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“Math,” she whispered. “Math, what are you doing in my room?”

“Your room?” Matthew curled into himself, out of shame. Maybe if he could make himself small enough, she would forget he was ever here. Maybe they all would, and they would be all the happier for it. “I thought – I don’t… I don’t remember. I just remember thinking I needed help… I needed… I _wanted_ …”

Lucie hushed him softly. “It’s okay, Matthew. It’s alright.”

Matthew sobbed into her skirts. She was going to have to throw it away, and that only made him cry more. What else could he ruin? Who else could he destroy? Sober or drunk, he was making all the same mistakes, over and over and over. Maybe it wasn’t the drink. Maybe it wasn’t the vengeful faerie. Maybe it was just him. Maybe he was built to hurt everyone and everything he loved.

Maybe nothing was sacred to him anymore.

He thought Lucie was, once upon a time. He thought, of all people, she would be the one person he could not bear to hurt. Because she was so wonderful and so _good_. But now she was holding him in the dark with shaking arms, and he could feel hot tears slipping from her cheeks down to his.

“What happened, Matthew?” she whispered, her words a strangled cry and Matthew thought, _Oh, God, please, not her, too._ “It’s been months. Months since I’ve heard you truly laugh. Months since you’ve been my Math. What happened? Did someone hurt you?” Anger seeped into her words. “Who did it, Math?”

 _I did,_ he almost told her. _It was me. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea ultimo culpa._ But he could not burden her with this. It was his cross to carry. His pain to bear.

“Was it me?” she asked softly. A hesitant question.

Matthew turned over so he was looking straight at her. In the faint moonlight coming from her windows, he could see her cheeks glisten with tears. His mouth felt dry and his body felt hot and his soul felt too big for his skin.

He reached up through the drunken haze and wiped Lucie’s tears away with his thumb.

“You are not my great sin, Lucie. You are many things to me, but not that.”

“We just want you to be okay,” she said. “Me and James and Mother and Father. Thomas and Christopher. What happened was a tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault, Math.”

And at that, Matthew laughed. But it wasn’t the laugh Lucie was hoping for. It came out mean and bitter and jagged. A broken imitation of mirth.

“Lucie.” Matthew closed his eyes and hoped he would never open them again. “Lucie, my love, if you only knew.”

“Then let me know,” she said fiercely. _“Let me know, Matthew.”_

But he was already falling asleep, falling down into blissful oblivion.

**1903 – 1904.**

Matthew watched his _parabatai_ fall in love.

Then he watched Lucie Herondale fall in love.

What was it they always said? _Herondales love but once_. If that was true, then what was Matthew still doing here? Where did he fit? Matthew Fairchild and his jagged edges, his frayed lines, his fractured pieces. Matthew Fairchild who couldn’t breathe without hurting someone he loved.

Maybe in another life, she could have come to love him as he loved her.

Maybe if he hadn’t done what he had. Maybe if he had allowed her to come close enough to see his fault lines. Maybe if he had been a better man, someone worthy of her. Someone who could look her in the eye and not flinch away. Maybe then. Maybe.

**1905.**

One last time. He would hope one last time.

She met him in the library where they first met. He stood by the window where he’d first seen her. Outside, daylight blazed, scorching and almost blinding. He took her in – her pale-blue eyes and soft brown hair and the engagement ring shining on her hand.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” he said, trying to smile. He really did try. He would always try for her.

“Math.” She raised her arms to him. “Matthew.”

He did not realize he’d been waiting for her permission, but it was as if he was a marionette with cut strings, falling gracefully into her arms. His own arms went around her waist, pulling her close to him, as close as he dared.

Lavender. Ink. Lucie.

He set her down, drew away from the circle of her arms. “Jesse Blackthorn is a lucky man,” he said gently. “And I am not just saying that because he gets to live twice.”

“Thank you, Matthew.” Lucie grinned. A small dimple appeared in her cheek. “I myself am a lucky woman.”

“I must admit I never would have thought anyone worthy of you. But he comes close enough.” He lied through his teeth. He lied to her face. It came so easily now that he had been doing it for years. “I am so very happy for you, Lucie.”

For a moment, Lucie only looked at him.

“I had hoped—” she began, but cut herself off with a shake of her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. What did you want to speak about, Matthew?”

And here it was. One last time.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Took them out. Wrung them.

“Lucie,” he said. Just that. Just “Lucie.”

“Matthew,” she said in response.

“What if I told you,” he said, “that I am the sea?”

She looked at him, uncomprehending.

“That I am a candle?” he continued. _Continue,_ her voice for years past echoed in his head. “And that you are the moon and the flame and chocolate cake?”

Her eyes brighten with understanding. “Matthew…” Was that pity in her voice? Disappointment? Disapproval?

“I do not hope for you to share my feelings,” Matthew said hurriedly. “I wish only for you to hear them, before it is too late. Lucie Herondale, I have loved you for years and I will love you for years more, if you’ll let me. Or even if you won’t. I will take my love with me and go quietly into the dark with it. You will never hear of it again, if that is what you want. But you must know – I must let you know now. I love you, Lucie. I love you.”

He hoped it would be enough.

“Matthew,” she said, and she sounded so sad. “Are you drunk?”

Matthew blinked. “What—”

There was that look on her face again. A quiet fury. Anger kept on a tight leash. “You cannot just say this all to me now, Matthew Fairchild. I will not let you.”

She strode towards him. He stepped back, until his back hit a shelf and he was trapped between dusty books and Lucie Herondale. Her eyes could have frozen Hell right then. Matthew had never seen her so angry, so _furious._

“You think I am just a stupid little girl, don’t you? You think I’m like all of them – the boys and girls who hang off every word you say – and you think you can string me along just as easily? You mistake me for a fool, Matthew Fairchild. My heart is not one you can merely toy with.”

By the end of it, she was breathing almost as harshly as Matthew was.

“Lucie,” he said quietly. “I am not drunk.”

Her eyes widened. She stepped back. Took a deep, rattling breath and then said one word.

“Go.”

“Lucie—”

 _“Go,”_ she repeated, her voice breaking. “I cannot bear to look at you now, Matthew. You have spent years making us all believe that you find nothing sacred.”

“That isn’t true,” he said, but it came out feeble.

“And I believed you,” she whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself and trembled. “At some point, Matthew, you made me believe you. So how can I trust what you’re saying now isn’t another attempt at breaking my heart? You have succeeded long ago, Matthew. And it’s time for you to go.”

She must have meant _go calm yourself and come back_. She must have meant _go talk to James_ or _go until I call you back._ But he would never know. All he heard was _go_.

So he went.

He took his coat and his broken heart and went, passing Lucie and not letting her see the full extent of the damage. He would not let her see his hands shake or the first of the tears. He would save that for the bartender.

But he never made it to the bar. Because in a shadowy corner of Hyde Park, the vampires were waiting.

* * *

He does not tell the vampires of the Hotel Dumort all of it. He does not tell them of the aftermath of his Turning, of his mother holding his hand as his body warped and changed. Of him apologizing to her for a sin she did not know he committed. Of James Herondale and Thomas and Christopher Lightwood holding him down as Anna Lightwood forcibly made him drink blood to keep him alive. Of Lucie Herondale, standing at the edge of his cot, her hands flying to her mouth as if to keep down the racking sobs that tore through her.

He tells them instead of how he found out she died - through a descendant who had her brown hair and blue-green eyes. She had died happy, surrounded by people she loved. And that was enough for him. He tells them of how he'd almost, _almost,_ asked if she ever talked about him but decided he would rather not know. Whatever answer he would be given would haunt him through his immortality, and he did not think he could bear that.

He tells them of the last time they ever spoke. Of how she made him promise never to go into the sun, and how that had felt to him like forgiveness.

He tells them of the last time he ever touched a bottle, three decades ago.

And then, when it is over, a young vampire asks him, "Do you still love her?" and he considers her with a long, thoughtful look.

"I have taken her everywhere with me," he says. "Even when I tried to leave her behind. She is with me, still. She always will be." He shrugs. "But love isn't the point of this story."

"Then what is?"

"Have you not been paying attention? I said it at the beginning. This is a story of hope. It was never about me loving her. It has always been about her hoping for the best in me, and me not living up to that. Sometimes, the people you love will disappoint you, and all you can do is hope that they won't, the next time. She has always hoped I would get better and then, one day, I did. Not in her lifetime, though, and that will always be my biggest regret." He pauses. "Sometimes, hope can outlive you. And sometimes, hope is enough."

They leave, one by one, to seek out someplace dark and quiet to spend the rest of the night before the dawn. Someplace to think about Matthew Fairchild and his stories. But one of them hangs back, a boy with curly hair and a cross-shaped scar on his chest. 

"Do you think," the boy asks, "you'll ever see them again? Your James and your parents and your Lucie?"

Matthew smiles. "I hope."

**Author's Note:**

> The 1901 section will only make sense if you've read Matthew's chapter in the Ghosts of the Shadow Market. It is meant to precede Matthew's meeting with Jem in that chapter. I've omitted outright saying what Matthew's "great sin" is, because some of you might not know it yet. 
> 
> Thanks for reading xoxo


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